Wild
by Stephane Richer
Summary: Sometimes it doesn't feel real, this closeness and the quietness of the day, the tranquility—Shuu's hand traces a pattern on his palm absently as if it's in some language that neither of them really knows.


Wild

Disclaimer: don't own

Notes: Day 10 of the 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge by ghiraher on tumblr: deserted island

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It takes a while for Tatsuya to realize they've stopped counting the days since they washed ashore, since the plane hit the water and sank, since they clung to the dinky inflatable water and paddled until they found this island, since they spoke to other people, since the world was only the two of them. It's kind of nice sometimes, that it's only them, that he doesn't have to share Shuu with anyone—Tatsuya chides himself for thinking he's lucky and for being so damn selfish, for not wanting to be rescued, for not desperately wanting to reach everyone they left behind. But what would they say? What would they talk about? They've missed so much time, at least a year by now (not that the seasons change very much out here) and everyone must have gone on with their lives by now, assuming the worst. Technology has moved on; politics have moved on; the longer they stay the harder it will be to ever reinsert themselves.

And Shuu has made his own peace with being like this, possibly forever—sometimes when he thinks Tatsuya's not looking he stares into the distant waves at night, trying to fool himself into thinking he sees a light off the water, a ship of some sort, perhaps adrift or perhaps looking for them or for the plane (it can't have done anything but fall straight down, spiraling as the smoke was quenched by the cool ocean water until it reached a resting place below the light, with enough pressure to burst and break the black boxes and the GPS and everything else) but it happens less and less as time falls away. Instead they spend the evenings in the small thicket, tangled in each other's arms and surrounded by the chattering of insects and nocturnal birds and each other's scents.

They stay in the shade on the sunnier days because they don't have sunscreen or even proper clothes anymore, drink water from the little spring and lie together at the base of the tree gazing upward into the light filtered by the leaves above them. Sometimes it doesn't feel real, this closeness and the quietness of the day, the tranquility—Shuu's hand traces a pattern on his palm absently as if it's in some language that neither of them really knows.

The first and only time they tried to hunt, armed with only the half-forgotten hunting lessons Tatsuya learned in that one miserable summer of boy scout camp, they'd ended up bruised and bloody; they'd expended more calories trying to catch the damn rabbit than they'd gotten eating it, and henceforth they've stuck to fish and vegetation and kept a sort of truce with the native fauna, never taking more than they need for food and shelter. It was tough washing the wounds out without disinfectant, and Shuu's gentle fingers were shaking as they brushed across his knuckles and Tatsuya had remembered them steadier when their feet were on pavement instead of sand and they'd had proper bandages and infection was not a distinct possibility and even if it had happened they could just go to the hospital—modern medicine is the only convenience Shuu really seems to miss, the only thing apart from his family, and Tatsuya wonders sometimes if he hasn't been keeping track of the days still so he can send wishes to his siblings on their birthdays.

Sometimes Tatsuya wonders about Taiga and clutches his necklace, rusted out but still attached to his neck somehow, wonders how he's coping—things between them are settled and it won't be as hard as it would have been at one point for Taiga to move on from this, but then he wonders if Taiga still wears the necklace now that he's as good as dead. Has he thrown it out? Does he keep it somewhere? Did he lose it? It makes him breathe harder in a bad way and he tries to wrap himself tighter in Shuu's arms and ends up waking him up half the time; Shuu's disgruntled but doesn't question it, holds him and kisses his sweaty forehead and whispers things that only make sense to him but soothe Tatsuya into a less-fitful sleep nonetheless.

Sometimes Shuu dreams of the crash, the sound of screams and the plane hitting the water, time slowing down as they made their escape, the way the wing tilted up and sank beneath the turbulent sea, the smoking engines and how hard it was to breathe with everything in the air, the chemicals and the tension and the urgency and the magnitude of what was already lost to them and what soon would become so. Tatsuya wakes up in the middle of the night to find himself shivering and alone, and he finds Shuu out in the clearing, staring up at the moon; he refuses to meet Tatsuya's eyes and neither of them sleeps for the rest of those nights, staying up until the sun rises and they remember they're alive. The lack of sleep makes them both irritable but they're too afraid to separate, too afraid to shatter this if it's an illusion, too afraid of what's behind the glass.

The water lies placid out in front of them and they sit with rods cast and unmoving—sooner or later a fish will take the bait. Tatsuya leans against Shuu and Shuu kisses his ear fondly—he has been kissed there so many times by now, has kissed and been kissed in every possible way and yet each time it's different as they grow more lost to time and the world around them. Each time they've got new cuts and scrapes and bruises and scars; each time it's a little more wild. There is no need to exchange empty words of affection; it's redundant to voice the way they need each other, even when the air is too still and stale and their ears are ringing from the quiet and they cannot press further together than they already are and they're both holding their breath to keep from drowning in each other.


End file.
